


Mann gegen Mann

by struwwel



Category: Rammstein
Genre: I don’t know how to tag this, Implied Feelings, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, does this count as pwp, implied pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:47:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23482654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/struwwel/pseuds/struwwel
Summary: Till likes to watch Richard a lot. Luckily, there is a lot to watch at the set of Mann gegen Mann.
Relationships: Richard Kruspe/Till Lindemann
Comments: 14
Kudos: 68





	Mann gegen Mann

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GwendolenFairfax](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwendolenFairfax/gifts).



> ... I don’t know what this is. It is a 100% spawned by this gif, (https://msgwendolenfairfax.tumblr.com/post/614218723019161600/msgwendolenfairfax-damn-there-is-a-whole-one) and Reesh’s sexy, sexy head tilt, but apart from that I have no idea what this is. I tried to write this in german too, but gave up after like one sentence, because german is just such a “sperrige” language. I wanted it to feel casual, no idea if that was a success. Let me know. 
> 
> Other than that: I mainly wrote this because I am completely stuck on the next chapter of my main story. Now, don’t you worry, huge chunks are written, and it will NOT stop, but connecting the parts is hard, so bear with me. 
> 
> My brain seems to be very Tillchard focused. Sorry about that, Paulchard shippers. It was kind of difficult to leave their versions I thought out for that big story and come up with new ones, that fit them just as well, but that part was the most fun too! I think this is completely random, but I also kind of like how it turned out, so I hope you have as much fun reading it as I had writing it. 
> 
> Please go gentle on me, it’s my first time.

When Richard rolls and tilts his head to reach the microphone, the muscles in his neck stand out. They’re very, very sexy. They look like one of the harshest part of his body, because they’re not as covered in squishy, delicious padding as the rest of him, but Till knows for a fact that the skin there is very soft, and very warm, and when Richard does that head tilting thing, they are very good to suck on. He’s done it before - and he’s been rewarded with Richard sulking in the back of the tour bus and holding out on him for weeks because of the resulting hickey. It had shown up so beautifully on his pale skin, and unfortunately they have merciless bandmates.

He does it all the time. He does it on stage - to wiggle away from the guitar strap that bites into his shoulder when he’s topless. Sometimes it leaves thin, red rashes on his shoulders, because leather against skin can be so cruel, and then he does it to look at himself better in the mirror while he applies some cream to it. 

He does it when he’s singing, too. Even without the guitar. Till suspects it’s his “I’m a sexy, fangy beast, look how I bare my teeth while I move around sinuously” move, but he can’t tell him that, because whenever he mentions “the tilt” to Richard, he just looks at him with fond exasperation and he will never admit to trying very hard, because his whole schtick is wanting to look effortless.

“I don’t know, Till, I’m just moving. You do weird stuff with your hands all the time.”

When he really presses him on it, he pretends to think about it. “A guitar is a asymmetric piece of shit, you know? It kills my shoulder and I’m just trying to get better access.” “The strap presses on my throat otherwise.” “My neck is just tense.” And then he rolls his head again, as if he is actually trying to figure out why he’s doing it. Till presses him on it a lot.

Today, he’s doing it because a director told him to. Actually, this is the second director who does. The first time it was easy to justify, for making that into-the-mirror-double thing work, but this time even Richard has to admit they are on to something.

When Jonas asks him to “please, Richard, can you move your head like that more often, yes?” Till turns around to him and mouths “I told you so.” Richard is incredulous. He rolls his eyes, but then grins, clearly satisfied with himself. Who doesn’t like to be told they look good?

He’s in a good mood in general today. Richard kind of dislikes video shoots, especially those where he is “covered in shit”, but he _does_ like Jonas. Till also likes Jonas, but he’s a little wary of him too, because he can snip with his fingers and Richard will be grinning his shit eating grin and relax, and happily roll his head for him. He’s got that stupid swedish accent, that makes him sound all cute and innocent, when back in the day he’s probably sacrificed baby rabbits to satan. Or burnt churches. Or wait no, that was in norway.

Till knows it’s because Richard is flattered that this guy actually likes working with them, being all fanboy, when he could just as easily work with bigger names and bigger budgets. And flattery always gets to him - until it comes from Till. Then he dismisses it with an eye roll and a scoff, unless it’s one of those rare occasions where he catches him off guard and he gets flustered and blushes and Till’s heart does that weird, stupid skip that makes everything a lot more complicated than it needs to be. Till wants to be Jonas Åkerlund for a day, to get that grin, and that cooperation - and that head tilt.

It looks even better today, because Till can see each muscle move with it under the sheen of oil. It involves everything. Biceps, triceps, pecs. He holds his jaw in a very particular way, and his nose scrunches up, keeping with that predatory “I can smell you and I will get to you” theme that is so pretentious and _so hot_ , oh god, so hot.

When they take a break, Richard leans against the wall of the hall and smokes. He’s basically naked, and Till is glad he has at least held on to his guitar, that now just _hangs there._ He can pretend he’s wearing proper briefs, thank god, because this is supposed to be a professional filmset. Till thinks Richard should be naked and oily and in boots more often, but he kind of sees how that collides with practicalities.

Richard looks at Till in pretend-question - _and tilts his head_. “What?!” he demands, innocently. As if he didn’t know.

“You are beautiful,” Till says quietly. He thinks beautiful is the appropriate word. Other words sound way too basic for someone as convoluted, and Till can get away with it because it only keeps up the poet persona.

Richard sniffs and picks at his eyebrow with delicately pointed fingers.

“I,” he says, “need a shower.”

“Please don’t.”

Richard raises an eyebrow at him and blows smoke into his face.

“That’s disgusting.”

“Doesn’t look it, tho.”

“I don’t think I will ever feel clean again.”

Till grins at him.

“Dirty suits you.”

Richard scoffs, but there is the tiniest bit of a smirk at the corners of his permanently frowning mouth. “Well, enjoy seeing it while it lasts.”

“It’s gonna be on film, sweetheart. It’s gonna last a long time.”

Richard looks like he hadn’t considered that before for just a moment and then actually laughs at himself. He throws his head back while doing it, and it brings out the muscles and tendons in his neck too. 

When he’s done, he looks at him with a glint in his eye, smiling suggestively around his cigarette. He might pretend to be innocent, but he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Why do you never take a compliment from me?” Till asks critically. It doesn’t really fit the mood. He’s wearing a ridiculous hairpiece and vinyl diapers after all. It still works tho, because Richard didn’t see it coming. He frowns at him, slightly surprised, and it takes a few seconds until he’s settled into that new moment.

“Because then I would have to believe it,” he says seriously, “you’re too honest.”

That doesn’t make any sense.

Richard drops the stump of his cigarette and pushes himself off the wall. He looks a little annoyed now, like he always does whenever something doesn’t follow his plans. Till has a feeling _he_ isn’t following his plans, which is nice because it makes him feel like he can actually affect Richard, and bad, because he feels like a nuisance.

“Time to work,” Richard says and stalks past him, trailing an oily hand over Till’s naked stomach. It’s slippery and tickles and feels like he reaches right into his groin and wakes something up.

Till turns around and watches his ass while he moves away. Of course he doesn’t just get away with it, because Richard looks back to check if his tactics are working. He catches his stare and shakes his head at him, but Till knows he is smiling when he keeps walking. Damn that man. _Damn that ass._

Till hides in the toilet booth for 10 minutes afterwards until he is sure he can face a set full of naked men again and pretendit’sall “clinical”.

Later, in the community showers of the sports hall, Till glances over at Richard, who takes his time. He is tempted to wait and ambush him then and there, but the man is on to him. “Don’t you dare even think about it,” he growls, and then proceeds to moan and gasp around in relief and claims it’s the best shower he’s ever had. It echoes in the tiled room, growling and breathy and surprisingly deep.

Outside, they wait for a taxi together. It’s October and already so cold, and it’s not like Till isn’t looking forward to those agreed upon after work beers at that bar, but he would rather do something else. “Take me home with you later?”

“I’ve pretend-played the same song 40 odd times today. I’m tired,” grouches Richard.

“What if I say please?”

Richard crosses his arms and gives him a measured look. This is one of those times where Till has no idea what’s going on in his head. All he knows is that he wants to rip that stupid scarf off his neck and kiss him where his neck meets his shoulder, and then let him do whatever else he’s prepared for that day. They’ve been doing this for so long now, and still he never knows what he will get out of him each time.

“Fine.” Richard relents. “But your place. I’m not cleaning up after you.”

“When did you ever need to clean up after me?”

“You leave empty glasses.”

“Oh my god,” says Till, annoyed. “You have a dishwasher.”

“Your place, or not at all.” He smiles and stretches, and then he _does it again_. Not fully, this time, just a hint of moving his head to the side.

Till sticks his tongue out at him.

“Fine.”

Later, Richard leans against the wall in Till’s hallway. He’s taken off his boots and his jacket and scarf, and now he stands there, in a black dress shirt and jeans and stares at Till. He’s a little drunk, his hair a little disheveled, pupils a little too big.

Till walks over to him and takes his time to open the buttons of his shirt until he can tug it down over his shoulder to expose his neck. Richards warm breath hits his face, his eyes are half closed now. Till lets two fingers travel down, following the tendons from behind Richards ear, slowly, lightly, until they come to rest on the red line left there by the raw leather edge of the guitar strap. Apparently even oil isn’t enough of a lubricant when you enthusiastically have to play a song for over 40 times.

“There...” Till breathes, and leans in to press his lips on the raw spot. He’s careful to be gentle.

“You’re obsessed,” Richard says with an annoyed sigh, but his voice is mild, and he buries his hand in Tills hair.

“With you, yes. Always.” Till mumbles against his neck. Richards skin is even softer than usual, moisturized by an excess of body oil. He licks over the rash a few times and then blows on it. Goosebumps travel over pale, smooth skin.

“Bedroom,” Richard commands, a little out of breath, “I’m too tired for gymnastics.”

Till follows him. Richard moves around his apartment like he owns the place, messily throwing off his shirt, his jeans, his boxers, his socks. He’s so unceremonious.

“I think it’s more likely I will clean up after you,” Till complains, while he’s undressing himself as well. He watches the muscles move under Richards skin, and wonders if Richard ever saves memories like that of him. He finds it hard to believe.

Richard sprawls out on Till’s bed on his back, one arm behind his head. He’s half errect and looks a little flushed, but other than that he doesn’t seem to be terribly excited. He looks comfortable, completely at ease with being scrutinized so intently. He angles for a tube of lube from the drawer of Till’s night stand without looking at it. Maybe they _do_ this a little too often.

“Be on top,” Richard says, “I’m not doing any more work today.”

Till looks down at him. His mouth is dry. He feels like he’s drowning in a hot wave of desire. It pulls and aches and makes him want to sink into the man in front of him without any deferment, but at the same time he has that stupid, impractical tendency to be a sentimental fucking oaf that wants just a little bit more than just a convenience fuck. He has too much of those as it is.

The longer he stares at him, the more heat is entering Richards blue eyes too. His breath goes a little heavier, he is staring up at Till, measures him, measures his erection, measures who he is too, maybe. He really is beautiful.

Till crawls unto the bed, over him, as much as he can without putting any weight on him, and kisses that spot again. This time, he dares to suck on that warm, silky skin a little until Richard arches reluctantly up to him, letting his head fall to the side to offer him his neck. It’s a bit like in a very cheesy vampire movie. There’s a reason why people watch those, after all.

“If you give me a hickey ...”

“... you’ll cut off my balls. I know,” interrupts Till, and leaves a kiss right under Richards ear, then one, two, three, along his jaw line. “Don’t worry.” He meets his eyes again, half hidden under lashes that are really _way_ longer than necessary.

Kissing him is always a little strange at first. It’s sweet, and hot and intimate, and Richard tastes of wine and cigarettes which should be off putting, but somehow isn’t, and everything about it feels forbidden. More than the sex, more than the glances they exchange on stage. Maybe one day, if they aren’t careful, they’ll fall into whatever vastness lies behind those kisses, so they’re both a little too hesitant for it to really be enjoyable.

Till breaks the kiss and settles back between Richard’s legs, reaching for the lube. He feels exposed all of a sudden, because Richard seems so unfazed, laying there still with his arm behind his head, staring up at him and lazily stroking himself. Till catches his wrist.

“I thought you didn’t want to do the work,” he reminds him. Richard grins and pulls his hand away, putting it behind his head too. “...if it takes you forever to get to work I might as well do it myself.”

Till bites his cheek to keep himself from saying something unkind, and just pushes two lubed up fingers into him. Richard is so warm and tight, and now his breath catches in a mixture of lust and displeasure.

“Why do they have to make it so cold,” Richard complains about the lube, as he always does. He really doesn’t like it.

“Hmm.” Till is distracted, by the muscles easing up around his fingers, the hip rolling towards him, _pushing_ towards him, the way Richard’s breath hitches a little, the way the muscles on his abdomen tighten. He’s not so indifferent now.

“Put your knees up.”

“They already are.”

“Higher.”

Till leans back over him, lets his hand run over Richards stomach in gentle circles, kisses the hollow at his throat. He feels a bit dizzy, his cock throbbing painfully between his legs, but he has to take his time, has to slow down, do this right for once.

“You ready?” he whispers into Richards ear. 

“...yes. Hurry up.” Richard pushes his hipsup, spreads his legs a little more, is open for him and stares, blue eyes, parted lips, warm breath.

Till runs a hand up the insides of his thighs. The skin there is even softer than on his neck, and he doesn’t really understand how that is even possible. When he starts to push into him, his experience is narrowed down to Richard, how he feels under him, how everything is tightening around him, even air, the sound of Richard panting and how it’s the only sound in the room, apart from the rush of blood he imagines to hear, heat, skin, want, bittersweet ache.

His vision is a tunnel and at the end of it is only the way the man under him moves and how he looks right now, his skin flushed, eyes bright, and that stupid spaced out smile that etches laugh lines into his face.

Richard knows, and Richard is impatient.

He rolls his hips and writhes under him, takes his arms away from under his head to run nimble fingers through Till’s hair before he drops them to his side and then he twists his torso again and smiles that stupid, stupid, pretty smile. He mirrors the movement from before, half moving away, half moving towards him, the same twist and head tilt as if he was trying to reach his mic, only now he tries to reach Till’s lips, and just like that there’s something short circuiting in Till’s brain. He gasps, and his hips buck forward and he sinks into him completely.

“Oowww” makes Richard, and gasps in pain, brows knitted together. He’s laughing, despite of it, heavily breathing through it, and rubs Till’s back comfortingly and it’s patronizing and embarrassing, and makes him feel stupid.

“Reckless ... asshole” Till pants. He can’t really speak, or think, or do anyhing but hope he won’t tumble over the edge too fast and that he can keep still for long enough before want overwhelms him again.

He probs himself up on one elbow and watches Richards face until the last traces of pain are gone and he’s nothing but wry amusement again, weirdly juxtaposed with the way his pelvis is pressing up and his legs try to push Till around and urge him to move almost frantically.

“Till, please ...” he finally whines, and Till is satisfied with that little bit of admission, because he thinks he won’t be getting any more of that today and he tries to do his best by him, by both of them.

Good sex takes practice, and Till likes to tell himself that is the reason why he likes sex with Richard more than with anyone else. He _knows_ how he likes it, they’ve been moving to the same rhythm since decades, and it feels good, holy fucking shit, so good to know how fast they should go or how he will find that one spot that makes Richard moan. It’s a sequence now: The way Richard’s breath is heavy first and then get’s frantic, how his eyelids start to flutter and his mouth goes slack, how he acts indifferent first and then digs his fingers into Till’s shoulders so deep it starts to hurt pleasantly. Richard becomes a whimpering, sputtering, sweaty mess before him in time and it is beautiful to behold that transition. It’s beautiful to _cause_ that transition. And even though Till isn’t doing a whole lot better in the becoming a mess department, he still manages to move a hand between them and wrap it around Richard’s hard, smooth cock when he think’s he can’t do this much longer before he looses himself.

Richard spills hot and wet over his hand with a throaty half cry and then everything goes black for a few seconds, a sharp and endless moment of wild bliss and agony that doesn’t seem to want to end and then ends way too fast. Till collapses on top of him, pulse hammering, and reality comes rushing back with their shared breathlessness and sticky skins. Richard strokes his back again, slowly, but it doesn’t feel patronizing anymore.

“Tell me things,” he finally murmurs his demand, soft against Till’s ear.

“What things.”

“Anything. Stories. Compliments.”

“You feel amazing.”

“Amazing how.”

“... just amazing.”

Richard hums, and it vibrates against Till’s chest. Then he tugs on him.

“You’re getting heavy.”

Till rolls off of him, dragging Richard along so they face each other and he can finally look at him again. He’s still covered in a fine sheen of sweat, and it suits him. His lips are tight again, eyes shut. He’s shaking a little and there’s a single tear escaping his left eye. Till wipes it away.

“I hate when that happens to me.” Richard complains.

“Don’t. It’s just the release. People cry after sex all the time.”

“It’s pathetic.”

“It’s normal.”

They doze off for a little bit, sharing each others air, until Richard gets thirsty and moves to get the water bottle on Till’s night stand. He grimaces at the slightly stale water, but for once doesn’t complain. When he comes back, he props himself up on his arm and looks down on Till. He looks a lot less exhausted than he has any right to be, the twinkle in his eyes is already coming back.

“You know, when it comes to sex, people usually do what they want done to themselves?”

“No,” grumbles Till, feeling way to tired for this.

“Hmm,” makes Richard. “But it’s true. Some kind of reverse psychology.”

He reaches out, and trails a hand along Till’s neck, mirroring his actions from before.

“You’re only obsessed with my neck because you like your own being molested, probably.”

Till looks at him, annoyed. Richard and his psychology shit again, making everything a lot more complicated than it is.

“I do that, because when you move like that it’s fucking hot,” he clarifies.

Richard grins and then leans over and kisses Till’s neck, right at that spot where it meets his shoulder. It feels a bit like being in heaven.

“Are you sure?”

“...no.”

Richard starts sucking on it, hard, so hard it’s starting to hurt a little, and Till can feel his surpressed laughter. He’s taking revenge, and it’s childish and sweet, and fuck, why are they getting too old for him to take him again right here on the spot?

“It’s gonna show,” Richard warns him, when it’s already way too late.

Till closes his eyes.

“I don’t mind. I like your marks on me.”


End file.
